


It's Just the Illusion

by DemGoodNoms (Talc)



Category: Tattered Weave (Video Game)
Genre: Illuminary Gala, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-11-26 23:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talc/pseuds/DemGoodNoms
Summary: Kyprian doesn't really know what to do, visiting this strange world for this fantastical gala, but thankfully he makes an elven friend who is more than happy to show him the ropes.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s difficult not to panic under the heavy weight of the Illuminary Gala; the lights, the colours, the sounds, and the guests, and the atmosphere is all choking full of life and laughter and this odd, electric-buzz in the air that cloaks over your skin like static and lingers long enough to insight even the most stoic with an overload of stimuli.

Coming from a place so devoid of life that even his own body is a whirr of silent machinery, Kyprian is overwhelmed. It takes all his self-control not to just keel over and succumbed to anxiety and anticipation. He has diplomatic meetings to speak of the Cosmic Solarium and discuss inter-remnant peace starting soon (in the sort of way that assumes time moves at a constant, linear pace, although he has been told that here it does _not_ do that) and hyperventilating out his feelings really will only cause a scene and screw with some of his more metal parts so he doesn’t really have the luxury of having a panic attack in the middle of this party.

To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t _want_ to be panicking, either. As much as this all is, it’s new and exciting and the curiosity in him yearns to ask questions and dive into their culture and knowledge. Even this mask sitting on his face is supposedly magic, and what does that even mean? Is magic a form of science? Is it studied can it be explained? He yearns to speak with the tree advisor he knows is organising this, but they seem so busy and the only others the commander knows of are the princess and her…Father? Dad? (he doesn’t want to be presumptuous and assume all the elves he’s met are related but the gruff older elf had certainly _acted_ like her parent, and though she had spoken of a king father somewhere in the forest recharging a tree [which how does that even work?! are elves batteries???] Kyprian knows not enough of elven culture to find if having two male parental figures is typical here or not and he is most certain asking for a clarification would be rude) Both of whom are intensely busy right now as well.

He stands painfully alone, wishing that perhaps his other delegate had stuck around to keep him company instead of wandering off to investigate giant flowers. Or for some foreign conversation, but most of the bird people and sentient trees and elves are all giving him the sort of glare he often refers to as the ‘Elliot-Look’, that is if they even look at him as opposing to ignoring him and the other outer-remnant guests completely. So ultimately he just stands alone by himself in a vast crowd watching the blur of stranger faces this ‘illusionary-mask’ has supposedly created and he feels so. Lonely.

Which is, perhaps, why he so awkwardly yelps when an arm is suddenly slung along his shoulders, a lithe body pressed up tight against his side and a grinning smile in his face.

“And who might you be?” A voice croons, an undeniably amused voice even under the confusing disguise of magic vibrating amongst it like the distant hum of a computer fan. Kyprian opens his mouth to answer, but he isn’t given much time as “Oh, you’re one of those visiting guests, aren’t you? From those other worlds with their charming machinations and beastly fashion.”

He can’t help but feel like he’s just been insulted, but it’s difficult to tell. “Yes, I’m Commander Kyprian of the Cosmic Solari-“

“Oooh, the sky world, isn’t it? Oh, you must be _so interested_ in our little soiree, hm? So novel to invite outsiders to the gala, quite a mess of innovation but we can’t really blame Celly for the lack of protocol, it’s not like we’ve _known_ outsiders before. Of course, what happened at the last gala doesn’t help, but that wasn’t her fault.” The stranger’s voice wanes between amused and condescending and Kyprian can’t quite figure out if it’s supposed to sound like that or if it’s just the magic.

“You know the princess?” He asks, looking at what is most certainly an elf standing right in his personal space.

“Oh Celly? Of course, me and her grew up in the court together! She’s always been so _sensitive_, I really worry about her sometimes.” Is the voice insincere? So hard to say. “But you don’t really want to hear about _that_, no? You want to know about us, our world and culture, hm? Oh, let’s walk and talk darling! Keep hold of my arm, don’t want to lose such _titillating_ company in the illusion, yes?”

Suddenly Kyprian’s arm is being tucked into the crook of the elf’s and he’s being swept away into a crowd of dancers, a voice at his ear to make sure he can hear all the words being spoken of magic and enchanted forests and withering. 

He knows he’s blushing, but perhaps the mask will illusion that away too.


	2. Chapter 2

Dynrial is excellent company. Kyprian certainly found the right individual to help him navigate through this long, confusing night. For one, he’s familiar with the court politics, something Kyprian has been fearing facing since he first started preparing for the gala. He’s also well versed in magic and knows the royal family. Soon the commander is caught up on the history of the forest, as well as the newest interferences with the royal line, the failures of the current political climate, the fashion and the culture.

He learns all this and more as the lithe elf leads him in dance after dance, speaking in a low voice in Kyprian’s ear, pretending he doesn’t notice when the commander fumbles a step or almost runs into another pair of dancers. It’s like something out of a fiction story, something ancient and Golden Age that he doesn’t quite know how to process. The atmosphere does not help; the music is loud and a constant presence in the air, which itself is heady with aromas his brain does not know how to process. Bodies press from all directions, and voices murmur in a constant buzz. He has no idea what they’re saying, but he can feel eyes on him with every step.

He’s afraid, not that he’ll admit it. The upcoming summits here mean far too much to the Solarium for failure to even be an option. They need the allies, need the help, and support. Need to know.

“You doing alright there, skyman?” The lilting tone of Dynrial is at his ear, a hand moving from where it was holding the commander’s waist to cup his chin, tilt it so they’re looking into each other’s eyes. “Seemed to be dreaming off there for a moment. Am I not entertaining enough?”

“Oh no, you’re plenty…Entertaining.” His ears burning. “Apologies this is just…”

“Overwhelming?” Dynrial smiles understandingly, though the lights of the ball make him appear far more condescending (it is the lighting that puts such a glint in his eyes…right?). “Oh, I understand. You foreigners must not be used to such delights. I can’t possibly imagine you have such wonders in your quaint little world.”

“Well, we certainly don’t have such decadent parties.” Kyprian chuckles in good nature. “We’ve had supply issues for some time now. With few resources, something like this would only be partaken by those on the upper decks and even then…Well, it wouldn’t be in good taste.”

“Hmm…” The elf takes a lock of the commander’s hair between his fingers, twirls and combs through them. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to forgive all you crass foreigners. I’m sure the court will understand the lack of manners here. Even as traditions are being broken left and right.”

“Broken? I was under the impression this is how the ball is supposed to be?” Was this not a genuine representation of Enchanted Forest Culture?

“Well it is…If you don’t count all the forbidden rituals and questionable decisions our poor Celly has made. She must be under _so_ much stress, I cannot even believe how else such poor choices would be made. Certainly, we all know how supposedly capable that dryad of hers is, but they’re so young! How are we supposed to trust an infant with dangerous magic?”

“I see why that would be concerning…” The commander didn’t know much about the princess past the information he’d been given by the visiting students to the Solarium, and brief correspondence concerning the gala. “I hadn’t realized things were so unstable right now…”

“Oh yes! I’m so worried about her! I mean, with all the rumours in the court about what really happened at the last Gala, and all these unwise decisions, people are having trouble trusting the poor dear. It’s cruel, but I really can’t blame them. Who would want to put their lives in the hands of someone who’s almost doomed us all twice?”

“I suppose…” Kyprian tries not to let the unease show on his face, but evidently he’s fairly easy to read.

“Look at me, killing the mood like this. Come, come, let’s just dance for a few songs. Then you can tell me about your sky realm.” The elven noble tugs Kyprian closer, till their hips are practically flush. The commander can feel heat creep up his neck, flushing from head to toe as Dynrial reaches up and cups the back of his skull, fingers running into his tightly bound ponytail. “Just pay attention to my charming self, pretty. I’ll lead you where you need to go.”

Even through the magic and the masks, Dynrial’s gaze is haunting.

“…Of course.” Kyprian breathes.

* * *

Several songs later and the two have parted ways, Dynrial placing a chaste kiss on the corner of Kyprian’s mouth and waving coquettishly before disappearing into the crowd of masks with a wink and a flip of his opalescent hair.

Left to his own devices again, the commander finds himself lost at what to do. He hovers, once again nervous in a crowd of strangers. It’s not too soon that he finds himself in conversation, though. In but a few stark moments he’s surrounded by illusioned faces of dryads and avoreals and elves, many of which belong to the court. They welcome themselves to speak to him of his own remnants, of relations and magic and he can’t help but feel that in all a few moments he’s managed to insult several dignitaries and made himself look like a right fool.

He can’t help but feel like he’s done something stupid. The only saving grace is the students of Hope, who continue to help him in his search for more information. But as the night goes on it becomes clear that everyone is far too busy worrying about their own problems. There’s tension in the air, arguments breaking out. One guest draws a sword, another growls at an avoreal. There’s shouting and cursing and he watches in horror as a spectacle takes place between the Princess’s chef dad and an avoreal with giant goggles. When the argument ends in tears and shouting from a big old bird, he finds he can’t take the pressure anymore and uses the crowd’s distraction to slip away into the shadows.

Tucked into a corner, lit by the light of his cybernetics and watching those dizzying crowds, Kyprian wishes he was back on the Bridge, looking out over the cosmic void that surrounded the Solarium. Food crises were preferable to this. Hell, even a conversation with Elliot was better than all this worrying and guessing and failing.

“And what has you looking so down?” The familiar, lilting voice at his ear is welcome enough for him to let out a breath of relief.

“Dynrial?” He looks up and sure enough, the noble elf is standing at his side, smiling sweetly and holding out a glass to him.

“Commander.” The glasses are full of a lovely berry-coloured liquid, that which Kyprian knows to be a rather archaic form of alcohol developed by fermenting fruit. Apparently it was quite traditional here. “Not having a good time? Here, drink up, tell me what’s wrong?” He sure that the slightly patronizing tone he’s picking up is just the influence of the music.

“Thank you.” Kyprian accepts the glass, sipping and savouring the sweet drink. Dynrial drinks form his own glass, taking purchase up against the wall right next to the commander, pressed up shoulder to shoulder. “This is just…Well, I’ll admit this is a bit too much for me.”

“Understandable. And all this drama cannot be possibly helping, now can it?”

“Not really, yes.” The drink warms him from the inside out, makes it easier to breath almost. He takes a longer swallow, letting the flavor sit on his tongue. It’s impossible to ignore the way Dynrial’s eyes follow his glass, how a tongue darts out against soft lips… “Ah um…” He’s blushing. Has he ever stopped blushing since he stepped in the room? He feels so warm, almost feverish… “It seems the Princess is very stressed right now.”

“Oh yes, the poor dear.” Something doesn’t seem completely sincere in the elf’s pout. “That fiasco with the old hunter and his pet avoreal couldn’t have possibly helped. And old Bird Brain over there making a scene over the whole thing? It’s as if he _wants _the ball to fail.”

“That…General, is it? He doesn’t seem very pleased with the gala…”

“Well, Thelvoskye’s a bit of an isolationist. Old fashion type, doesn’t really like the noveau, you see. He didn’t even want the Princess to invite you foreigners in the first place, convinced they were going to take down the Forest. Can’t really blame him; not that you aren’t all sweet, but all these strange people just showing up out of the Withering, it _is_ suspicious.”

Well that didn’t really sound like the best way to put it…

“I suppose…”

Dynrial looks sideways at the commander, frowning. “Oh you poor dear, you need a break, don’t you? Well come on, drink up, let’s get you some air.” He drains his own glass and gestures for Kyprian to do the same, which he hesitantly follows, before both empty glasses disappear into thin air and the commander finds himself being swept along again by the elf wrapped around his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the writers aren't going to give Kyprian the ravishing he deserves then I'll just have to wreck him myself.


End file.
